Roddy L’Estrange: Depressing sting in the tail spoils Vinny’s perfect day

As the Poldark finale gripped a TV audience of millions on Sunday night, a middle-aged crew, all male, were mining a far richer seam than anything unearthed in the Cornish tin mines: camaraderie.

In a quiet nook in Foley’s pub, six men of contrasting class, creed and marital status, were joined at the hip by firm friendship and at the lip by Uncle Arthur’s finest brew.

While they had supped together many a night in the Clontarf Road hostelry, this final Sunday in April carried a frothy glow of friendship, especially to one of their number, Vinny Fitzpatrick.

As he planted his glass on the barrel which served as a table, Vinny caught Dial-A-Smile’s eye for another round; he was in fine fettle.

In truth, the recent weeks had been the worst of times for the burly busman but the chat with his late Da, Finbarr, in the Kilbarrack Cemetery had proved cathartic.

He had left the silent bone yard determined to walk tall, walk straight and look the world right in the eye.

Not known as a firm decision maker, he’d come to terms with a pressing issue rattling around his huge, hairless, head.

Engaging in a relationship with Jenny Stanhope, for all her plus points, was a non-runner as Lugs O'Leary, her monstrous husband, would chew him up and spit him out if he ever learned of the affair.

Vinny and Jenny agreed, over one lingering kiss in the Rose Garden in St Anne's the previous Wednesday that it was better to let the hare sit between them, for the moment in any case. They parted wondering what might have been, yet contemplating too what might someday tantalisingly come to pass, for a wee flame had flickered.

Touring arm

The following morning Vinny was assigned duties with the touring arm of Dublin Bus, which saw him escort a crew of golfers to a quartet of the East Coast’s finest links, Royal Dublin, The Island, Baltray and Portmarnock.

The distinguished visitors were from the MCC, or Marylebone Cricket Club, to give them their full title, and Vinny had recognised one of them, Mike Gatting, complete with flattened nose courtesy of a Malcolm Marshall snorter.

On the return from The Island, Vinny heard how Gatting, a jovial sort, had bagged a lone birdie at a hole called ‘The Cricket Field’.

This, he learnt, was a flattish area on the hallowed links where cricket’s greatest champion, WG Grace, had once played.

“How fitting,” he thought.

After the final scurry around Portmarnock, Vinny had dropped the MCC crew, resplendent in their scarlet and gold blazers, to the airport at lunchtime on Sunday before high-tailing it back to the garage.

It was almost 2pm when he burst in the door at Causeway Avenue, and reached for the TV remote. To his unbridled glee, Everton were already 1-0 up against the mighty Manchester United. Soon, it was 2-0 and by the time Kevin Mirallas stroked home the third, Vinny was in dreamland.

"Eggo, Eggo give us a wave, Eggo, give us a wave," he shouted, in respect of the late Tommy Eglington, the Everton legend, and Vinny's boyhood hero – he ran a butcher's shop in Dollymount on his retirement. (It meant a lot to Vinny that Eggo's 428th and last game for Everton came in 1957, the year Vinny was born).

Red jerseys

After pausing to nuke a roast beef dinner (for one) in the microwave, Vinny switched to his other beloved boys in blue, The Dubs.

He cheered on Jim Gavin’s colts as they bolted to National League glory in Croker against Cork, another team in red jerseys he’d little love for.

That Jack McCaffrey, who lived just around the corner, was the conductor of the Sky Blue orchestra, only enlivened Vinny further.

It helped, too, that he had a nifty 50 on the double at 3/1. “Nice one lads, nice one,’ he said to himself.

Given the day’s seismic sporting events, and the clearer space around his personal life, it was inevitable Vinny’s spirits stayed high through the Sunday gathering. Among friends, true-blue and loyal to the core, he felt something which he longed for as much as anything; a sense of belonging.

He looked about the cooper-men. Of the six, only Macker was still with his wife, Marian, a stern-faced crone who reminded Vinny of Almira Gulch in The Wizard of Oz.

“No wonder Macker divides all his time between his taxi and Foley’s,” he noted.

Fran and Kojak were separated, Two-Mile Boris had a wife and kids in Volgograd whom he visited every summer while Charlie St John Vernon was a confirmed bachelor. (Charlie had a leaning towards ‘the Rochfortbridge side of the road’, as the lads called it, which didn’t cause a jot of concern).

They were the finest of yeomen, whose companionship was as sturdy and reliable as a broad-beamed Irish oak.

On this night, Vinny was as content as a roly-poly porker in a trough of slop. He sipped long and late, before tucking into a large curried chips from the Capri next door.

Letter box

Tottering unsteadily on his arrival home, he noticed a large envelope thrust inside his letter box. “That’s curious, as it’s Sunday,” he thought as curried fingers fumbled for the slim packet. Inside the tiny hall, he felt his fatty heart jump as he recognised Angie’s writing. Could this be the sign of reconciliation he was secretly praying for?

He ripped open the envelope, which contained a one-page note and some heavier documents.

With hope rising, Vinny's glassy eyes ran through the script. Angie was asking after him, she hoped he was keeping well, that the job was going okay. It was all touch-feely until he saw the word which hit him like a Floyd Mayweather uppercut: divorce. At that, Vinny tumbled into the abyss, falling deeper than the deepest Poldark pits. He wailed aloud but no one heard him cry.